


Under The Light Of The Sun (Kiss Me Goodbye)

by deadseasburntoutstars (snowontherooftops)



Series: homestuck femslash porn [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia, F/F, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lesbians, PWP, Rough Sex, Tentabulges, some one had to do it, this is a gays only event go home, this is just straight porn yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 15:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13321071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowontherooftops/pseuds/deadseasburntoutstars
Summary: When picking places to fuck, admittedly, the garden was not the best choice.





	Under The Light Of The Sun (Kiss Me Goodbye)

Your lover, she is so  _ beautiful _ , her hair swinging furiously about her head as she tells you tales of her life, the struggles she has had to overcome to be sitting with you now, her voice ringing with such fervor you have little choice but to trust in her wholeheartedly. 

 

Her eyes are wide and grey, and the whole world is her enemy, trying to keep her from her true potential as the most badass troll Alternia has never seen. The whole world, except you.

 

Your lover, she is so  _ intoxicating _ , her words weaving a tapestry too beautiful to ever ignore, body swaying to a music no one else has ever heard, but, oh how you long to hear it with her!

 

Her eyes pierce your soul with the love in them, her arm slung around your shoulders lackadaisically, hand curled in your short hair, which is going to mess your hairdo up fierce, but who are you to tell your love no? 

 

“Aranea,” You call, laughter in your voice, and she smiles at you. You would die for a glimpse of her smile, but to you she gives them out for free. 

 

“Aranea, move a bit to the left, won’t you, darling? You’ll squish the petunias.” You are with your love in the garden, and she sits to your right. You are sneakily asking her to come closer, but you know that Aranea knows what you’re really asking for, because she is the queen of sneaky. Her sharp-fanged grin grows wider, but she does not call you out on it.

 

Your lover, she is filled with mercy.

 

Aranea scoots closer to you, side pressing against yours, her sharp smile close enough to taste her breath.

 

“Porrim,” She says, quietly, an intimate thing. You blush. Her hand is on your leg, and you shudder from the chill of her cold hands against your bare thigh. You blush harder. Aranea presses into you, chest to chest and nose to nose, her grin dropped into a stubler smirk.

 

“Porrim,” your girl says again, and pushes you down until you’re lying down, her muscular arm supporting her as she leans over you, so large she eclipses you. The callused hand on your thigh rubs soft circles into your flesh, and even though you’ve grown acclimated to the chill, your body is still wracked with shudders. 

 

Aranea studies you, eyes heavy lidded with an emotion that makes your gut clench, and she slowly lowers herself over you until her breath is not just close but almost a physical thing against your lips, the prelude to a kiss. She draws it out not because she wants to, but because she can. Your lover, she is so  _ cruel _ to you.

 

It's you who seals the kiss against her lips, half crazed with desperation and the electric want flowing through your veins. You kiss your lover harsh, kiss her like you could trade it for a slap and she’d be none the wiser, fist your hands in her hair and pull her close until she’s slammed against your fever hot body as close as she should have been the whole time, because your lover, she always makes you  _ wait for it _ , and you don’t want to wait.

 

You want her to fuck you, and you don’t want it gentle.

 

Aranea laughs against your black lips, pressing back against you so hard they go numb from the pressure, bead of blood and smearing between you from her sharp fangs, because she knows you, and she knows how you get off. She grips you around the waist with the arm she was using to keep herself up, going so tight you get dizzy from lack of air, and swipes her tongue into your willing mouth. 

 

The hand on your thigh is  _ big _ , almost encircling it, and Aranea holds it tight and steady, thumb working into the muscle, and suddenly, it’s not enough, your lover’s tongue pressed against yours like she wants to drinks you down, arm dwarfing your waist, and it’s not  _ enough _ .

 

You pull back from her lips, from her icy tongue, and it pains you, but you need more. She makes a pained noise, almost a moan but not quite, and chases you back.

 

“Aranea,” You gasp as she nuzzles biting kisses into your neck, “Aranea,” you moan as your lover touches you so  _ dirty _ , but not dirty enough, “ _ Move your fucking hand _ .”

 

She grins, bites you, and complies, because she loves to make you beg, practically lives off of the whine in your voice when you plead, but she loves to make you scream more.

 

Aranea strokes the lips of your nook, claws retracted because there is nothing sexy about being scratched down there, rubbing at the tip of your bulge. You shudder and shake for her, whining her name as she pulls back and watches you. You briefly think towards embarrassment, to hiding your face in your arms so she can't look you in the eyes as you come undone under her hands, but the thought is squashed, gone as soon as you think it.

 

Your girl kisses down your body, licking at your grub scars slowly, like she’s savoring the taste of your pleasure. She bites one, and wetness gushes between your thighs as you moan, a long, drawn out sound, high and cracking. Your back arches under this onslaught of pleasure, pushing your hips up and into Aranea’s hand desperately. She makes a pleased sound, moving the arm around your back onto your hip, pushing you down as her other hand pushes into you finger by finger, rubbing against the walls of your nook until every breath comes out a gasp, until you’re a panting mess under her.

 

Aranea kisses the tip of your bulge, eyes intent on yours as it paints her lips translucent jade, as her fingers work inside you. God, she’s so fucking big, just one of her fingers was a stretch when you first started, and remembering the night you were finally stretched enough for her to fuck you is so good, makes your spine tingle. It was a  _ long _ fucking night, and she had you screaming so loud at the end of it you couldn’t speak for three more.

 

She licks down the shaft of your bulge, sucking gentle kisses until she gets to the sensitive root, and your bulge thrashes, tangling in her hair and making a mess of it, and as much as that turns you on, it’s also fucking gross. 

 

You moan anyway, because, uh,  _ priorities _ . 

 

Aranea licks down, into your nook, stuffing her tongue into you past the stretch of her fingers, and you fucking  _ wail _ , eyes closed and back trying to arch under the hand on your hip, but she’s so fucking  _ strong _ that you move not an inch, not a centimeter. Your girl, she gives you no room to wiggle. You don’t want her to.

 

She yanks her tongue out of you, her fingers following slower but no less franticly, hand on you hip gripping you hard enough to bruise as you jerk under her, fisting your hands into the dirt under you, horns gouging deep into the ground. You’ll care about the filth later. You have much better filth to think about right now.

 

Your lover’s hands rip at the laces of her pants impatiently, eyes never leaving yours, and you throw your head, panting fast and heavy, the need in you a vicious living thing with claws around your head. You eart tries to beat out of your chest with your lust and irritation. Why, you ask yourself, why is the girl you fell in love with the one who insists on wearing dumb lace up pants every time you invite her over for sex? There is a time when the aesthetic must be left at the door for practicality, and that time is now. 

 

Aranea finally finishes with her  _ damnable _ laces, yanking her bulge out. God, you groan to look at it. She’s just so fucking  _ big _ next to you, body  _ and _ bulge. It drives you insane.

 

She falls back against you, throwing your legs over her thighs and tangling the hand not holding her bulge into your hair, and you think despairingly towards your immaculate haircut, and then throw it out the fucking window, because, uh, again,  _ priorities _ .

 

Aranea presses her hips to yours, letting your bulges twine together over her fingers. You throw your arm around her shoulders, try not to sound like the desperate fucking mess that you  _ are _ under the heavy curtain of your girl’s hair, hearing her hiss out a sharp, cold breath against your skin, whining when she bites at the gooseflesh that appears. 

 

“Aranea, Aranea,  _ please _ ,” You beg her, and she presses her skull against your shoulder so hard you can feel the bones grind together when she nods.

 

“I know baby, I know,” she grits out between clenched teeth, eyes closed against the sensation, and it would make you laugh how desperately she hangs on to her composure if it weren’t so fucking frustrating. 

 

Aranea tugs her bulge away from yours, whining in unison with you at the loss, it felt so fucking  _ good _ , goddamnit, but there are better things that you both want to do, and the both of you are so amped up you don’t know how long you can keep yourself from coming, can feel your orgasm licking up your spine in harsh, raking pulses. 

 

She paints the entrance of your nook with the tip of her bulge, letting it stroke your lips  before finally, finally pushing inside, rocking into your tense body soft, the only part of this you ever want soft, letting herself slip into you inch by inch.

 

There are a lot of fucking inches.

 

You feel.  _ Aaaaaaaall _ of them.

 

The temperature difference is what starts you shaking again, but it’s your girl’s movement that keeps them going. She warms up inside you, or you start to cool, bulge thrashing against your walls as yours tries to fight the air, and evidently loses.

 

Wait a fuck, that’s not sexy. That’s not sexy at  _ a _ \- Oh, shit fucking  _ hell yes _ . Aranea thrusts into you at an angle that makes you screech under her, sets the pace absolutely filthy fast, makes you writhe like a fish on a line, pushes you into the dirt and makes you stay there.

 

She dips down to kiss you, spit and blood and cum spilling out of your mouths, and it shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, but it still  _ does _ , god help you, it  _ does _ . Your girl kisses you like she wants to eat you, like if she presses her tongue hard enough into your mouth you’ll become one, and you wonder desperately if that would finally be  _ close enough _ , hands clawing lines of blue blood up her tense, corded arms.

 

You rock into her hard thrusts, feeling so full you’re going to fucking burst, pinned like a fly to a spiderweb, and it feel so fucking good, you, oh goooooooo-

 

“Aranea,” You scream, pulling away from her lips and  _ relishing _ the wounded sound she makes,”  _ I need a fucking bucket _ !”

 

And your girl, your beautiful, intoxicating, infuriating girl, she delivers, pulling one of the buckets you keep around for, a _ hem _ ,  _ reasons _ , close, catching the slime that starts to spurt from your nook as your eyes roll back into your head, pulling out of you to rock into her fist, eyelids fluttering and mouth moving, mouthing obscenities against your spent body as she comes, flooding the bucket with cerulean and jade.

 

Aranea nuzzles into your neck, rubbing your sides softly. You sling your arm around her head, pulling her to you and giggling when she kisses your chest. This, you’ll take gentle.

 

“Oh fuck, Aranea!” You shout, shooting up and dislodging her from off of you, to which she gives you a sullen look, but you don’t care, because, “My dress! It’s  _ ruined _ !” you moan, tragically not sexily this time. Good going, chumpass, you got dirt stains all oer your sexiest dress.

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it looks really good still!” She tries to assure you. You shoot her a dirty look.

 

“ _ No one _ looks good in dirt stains, Aranea,” you say, but kiss her head any way before running inside to hang it up to dry. Dirt stains are the  _ worst _ , you swear. Last time you fuck in the garden  _ ever _ .

 

(It is not the last time you fuck in the garden.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> hahahah. oh buddy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UReKIF6zcag


End file.
